Kenya

Despite being known as laid-back this can also be true of Africa. The over-used phrase ‘No hurry in Africa’ is definitely not true on the roads in general as people that have experienced the traffic in Nairobi or ‘Jam-pala’ know from frustrating experience. At Christmas, many people are traveling back to the villages to visit family. So much so, that Kampala, Uganda’s capital, is known to be a lot quieter with fewer traffic jams due to this migration outwards. Due to the increased demand, bus fares increase in price and it is hard to get a seat.

Unfortunately, it is also well-known that traveling around Christmas is more dangerous too. There are increased incidences of vehicle crashes and people intensify their prayers for road safety, praying against the ‘spirit of accidents’, whatever that means!

In general, our area of Africa is known to have poor roads and high road fatalities. Uganda, for instance, has 27.4 traffic deaths per 100,000 people compared to 2.9 in the UK (WHO, 2015). Road surfaces are often dangerous being pot-holed and narrow and many road users are untrained. Cattle, goats, chickens, bicycles and children are wandering near the main roads and straying onto them. Police can be more interested in getting their ‘Christmas money’ rather than maintaining safety standards such as overloaded vehicles. It is an unfortunate fact that 90% of the world’s road fatalities occur in low to middle-income countries, despite these countries having half of the world’s vehicles (WHO, 2015).

I am therefore always more nervous and prayerful when making long journeys in the car and especially by bus or boda boda (a motorbike taxi).

With these thoughts at the forefront of my mind, I nervously and prayerfully begin my long journey to Kisumu, Kenya where I was hoping to organise a new birth certificate for Amelie, our first-born who was born there in 2010. At that time, we worked with REAP for a year, a Christian agriculture and development organisation. For some reason, Amelie’s original birth certificate was missing at the Government Registry so they wanted me there in person with evidence to get a new one processed.

I took an over- night bus out of Arua to Kampala with KK Traveller, paying the extra money for a ‘Comfort’ bus. My thinking was that by paying a few pounds more, I would be traveling with the more affluent customer and be less likely to get robbed. Being near the back of the bus, I kept feeling the awful ribbed humps that regularly came up on the highways. They really jolted me and kept me from falling into a good sleep. Although I don't like night-buses, they are very popular since people feel they don't lose a day by traveling, but because of the lack of rest, my body grumbles against it and I feel groggy.

We reach Kampala at 6 in the morning. I have lots of jobs to do in Kampala and so use my trusted boda-boda driver around town. In my experience, this is really the only way to get around Kampala to schedule if you have limited time, as you don't know when the jams in town will keep you from moving. Jams seem to happen anytime, and have known to last 4 hours, crawling through just a few kilometres.

On my boda in Kampala

Riding a boda-boda in Kampala feels like an intense adrenaline rush, similar in feeling to an extreme sport, I expect, probably because you are taking your life in your hands. (Living in Africa itself often feels like living in a perpetual extreme sport, hence there being no need for paying for these experiences). As you dodge around cars, trucks and matatus, there is only marginal time and space for any mistake. I always marvel at the skill at the way the boda driver manoeuvres, his eye-hand co-ordination seems incredible. Despite the fear and worry I feel inside, I keep as still and relaxed as possible so as to not put my driver off and so make a mistake.

However, it is also a well-known fact that the highest causes of accidents and injuries is through riding a boda-boda, especially since most riders and passengers don't wear helmets. Peace Corps, an American volunteer agency working in Uganda, for instance, does not allow its workers to ride boda-bodas at all. In 2010, a study on the “Impact of Bodaboda Motor Crashes on the Budget for Clinical Services at Mulago Hospital, Kampala” found that 75% of all road traffic accidents involved boda bodas. (Mulago government hospital is the largest hospital in Uganda.)

Thankfully, I am able to get my work done safely. In the meantime, Emma has sent round a message to friends on WhatsApp asking for prayer for my travels as the morning brought news of 2 buses colliding on the Arua-Kampala route.

The bus to Kisumu, Kenya on Modern Coast is early the next morning and my boda-boda driver weaves expertly through congested roads to get me there on time. Carrying my small suitcase and backpack on the back as I ride makes it an even less comfortable and potentially risky ride.

The Modern Coast coach really surprised me with its comfortable large reclining seats like armchairs that you sank right into and small TV monitors. Unfortunately, the TVs didn't work, but the overall look of the bus was very impressive.

The interior of the Modern Coast coach

People trafficking warning at the Kenya/Uganda border

Kisumu is like a walk down memory lane for me as Emma and I lived there 7 years ago while working for REAP. It is also where I was hoping to get Amelie’s new birth certificate organised within the few days I had there, the main reason for traveling 780 kilometres across East Africa.

It was also really good to connect with old friends and colleagues. The founder and director of REAP is the impressively bearded Dr Roger and we had co-ordinated so we could catch up there. As he drives by, local youths call out ‘Jesus!’ or ‘Saddam!’, 2 very different people! REAP’s work serves to support the materially poor with relevant teaching on managing land and homestead. It is very interesting.

Unflattering selfie at REAP demonstration farm

Dr Roger

Kisumu centre

One of my old REAP colleagues, Sam, lives about 70km out along Lake Victoria near a fishing village called Asembo. Sam was once a fisherman himself before fish stocks grew too scarce. (Environmental problems like low fish stocks are growing issue on Lake Victoria). I had stayed out at his village home a couple of times before, and he invited me there for another overnight to meet his 2nd wife, a Ugandan lady he affectionally calls ‘Matooke’ after the famous Ugandan food, and eat tilapia fish, the food the Luo people, like him, love.

So it was that I ended up traveling on a ‘Matatu’, the ubiquitous white van that serves as an affordable transport for local people over longer distances in towns or between towns. These white vans are notoriously bad road users that don't follow any traffic rules, stopping when and where they want without using any signals. In Kisumu, they are often pimped up with bright paint-jobs and stickers emblazoned over them and music pumping. On our matatu, the music was mixed by dj big, vig or fig, I couldn't quite get his name whenever his tagline was mentioned in the music: ‘dj big, the mixmaster’.

Matatu

The ubiquitous matatu...

The matatu waits until it is full of passengers before leaving. There is a bit of haggling needed before accepting to enter as the ‘conductor’ has quoted a high price, likely because of my being a ‘Mzungu’. As we sit waiting, the matatu passengers are bombarded by sales people (walking shops) selling a whole range of items despite the ‘No Hawking’ sign behind them: sunglasses, watches, drinks, vests, mirrors, padlocks, necklaces, bracelets, torches, reading glasses, belts… The sales person uses various tactics to sell their product including dropping the item on your lap or hanging around and explaining just how much you need to buy it or looking at you longingly. I end up getting a newspaper and a lollipop.

Selling watches to matatu passengers

Selling juice to matatu passengers

The matatu leaves when all available space is taken up. This means that there are 4 people per row instead of the intended 3 maximum with the conductor himself hanging outside of the open door or standing up and leaning over the passengers. On many levels, the matatu is a typical African experience. There is no personal space so is great If you like things cosy. It’s definitely not a British way to travel… Bodies are pressed together and where they meet, it gets sweaty within the hot metal van. Without seat belts, the pressing together makes me feel a bit safer somehow. However, manoeuvring in and out of your seats takes some contortions, especially if you are of a wider and ‘traditional’ build.

For me, 30 degrees and hot sunny weather never makes me feel Christmassy. The cold, dark, dreich nights in Edinburgh where the windows are filled with Christmas trees and bright coloured lights makes me feel much more festive. Dropping into a cosy, warm café for a seasonal hot chocolate is one of my favourite things (especially since it feels like your body must have worked off plenty of calories keeping itself warm, so there is very little guilt). Although the iconic image of waking up to a crisp, snowy Christmas day has never yet occurred for me in Scotland, yet, it’s still a romantic notion that is a distinct possibility in Edinburgh, unlike here, of course…To be honest, I kept forgetting that Christmas was almost upon me here in Kisumu, something I don’t think I could ever do back in the UK, where I was always bombarded by reminders of how many shopping days I still have left till Christmas day.

Actually, the lack of reminders that Christmas day was nearing was one of the best things about being in this tropical town on Lake Vic. I didn’t feel any sense of panic that the big day was around the corner. There was no sense of pressure or depression contemplating the awful truth that I still hadn’t bought a present for my Uncle Donald (who has everything anyway). Jostling about with the focussed, determined crowd along Princes Street realising that your feet are gradually getting more damp is an event that I’m happy to have missed in 2010. A quieter Christmas-time also gives your head a bit of space to reflect on why the 25th of December is a day of celebration in the first place.

Amelie's Christmas meal

There are some quirky sides to celebrating Christmas here, however. One of the things that surprised me, was the way a few people asked about my ‘X-mas’, including my motorbike boy who asked if we celebrate X-mas in my country. It was very strange to hear Christmas being referred to as X-mas, in fact many people I know would say that it should never be called that, as Christ has been missed out of Christmas. I tend to think that mainly X-mas is just a lazier way to write a longish word, but I have no idea why people would call it that here.

Another X-mas tradition here, seemingly, is to wander around the centre of town aimlessly with your family. While driving in a taxi through Kisumu on Christmas, Em and I were astonished to see herds of people walking about around the malls. We have never seen so many people gathered in Kisumu, looking like crowds leaving a football match. Supposedly, it is the one time in the year that some children from outside of town get to come into town with their parents to look around (and do nothing, apparently). I guess those children are the lucky ones, though. Another interesting story we were told was that children are expected to come back to their parents on Christmas bearing gifts. Some kids not lucky enough to have a gift to bring, so end up not going home at all. What a special Christmas cheer that would be for the kids...

While there is definitely not the same amount of glitz and Christmas theatre that there is back in the UK, the little there is seems a bit out of place. At the malls in town, 2 Santa Claus’ dolls stood at the entrance playing American country music, for some unknown reason. At the same mall, some young people from a local church were dressed up as Santa and his elf doing face-painting and handing out sweets. It is a bit weird to see an African Santa Claus and I have never seen a Santa with such good dance moves as this one had. Also, hearing ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ doesn’t seem as fitting here in Kenya as it does back in Scotland.

Santa and AZ

Well, at least the neighbours knew how to celebrate, serving us fried cow stomach when we passed by to share Christmas cheer. Maybe it’s the local substitute for mulled wine and mince pies.

Sharing sodas and bread with the guards at our estate on Christmas

New Years eve found us at our mission organisation’s retreat somewhere around Nairobi, in a coffee-growing region called Ruiru. One of the many good things about the conference was that a ceilidh had been organised for everyone despite there being only 3 Scots. One of the Scots ladies who lives in Khartoum called the dances, while myself and Gran Pat frae Ayr demonstrated.

Dancing with GranPat

Most folks were from the States or Oz, so hadn’t ever done a ceilidh before, but everyone was up for it. As part of the evening’s entertainment, we explained to people what type of animal a haggis was and how it was hunted. The kids then went on their own haggis hunt capturing haggis out around the grounds. As weel, the evening was a chance to educate the ignorant masses in the guid Scots tongue, wurds like ‘glaikit’, ‘midden’, ‘girnin’, ‘dreich’ and ‘besom’. Before the end of the night, we all sang Auld Lang Syne drawing 2010 to a close while thinking what 2011 might bring.

Having a baby here has opened up a pandora’s box of new, but frustrating cultural experiences. Mainly, it involves the white man making a lot of faux- pas according to the way people bring up their newborn here. I suspect if there was a Kenyan social services similar to the one in the UK, wee Amelie Zuri would have been taken from us already…

Amelie Protests at Parental Neglect

It feels that anyone has the right to tell you what it is you should be doing, to the point of physically taking the baby from you to demonstrate. It is all quite infuriating and less than encouraging, when you take the baby out to run an errand or to get some fresh air and old ladies, mamas, young men or anyone and everyone, tell you off and criticise you. Here is a list of things that we are doing “wrong”:

Babies must always wear socks (even in 30 degrees C).

No socks

Babies must always be wrapped tightly in several large woollen blankets (even in 30 degrees C).

The baby’s must wear a woolly hat (even in 30 degrees C).

No hat, no socks. Very bad.

The baby must be covered in any case, in case someone is trying to bewitch her.

Babies should not be carried in public by the man, neither should he carry any of the baby’s belongings. This is a woman’s job.

Babies should never be carried in a sling. It will probably break her spine.

Newborn babies should stay in the house all day every day for 1 month, 2 months or 4 months depending on who you speak to (I mean, depending on who speaks to you).

New mothers should on no account leave the house for several weeks.

A baby should never cry, if he/she is crying, something is very wrong, feed her or take her to the doctor. No, she can’t be hot or tired.

The mother’s breasts are human pacifiers that must be whipped out anywhere at the first moment a baby utters a whimper.

The mother is to wear a very tight belt to shrink the uterus.

The mother is not to wear any bra so as to allow ample milk flow.

The mother is to drink a lot of hot chocolate and milky tea to produce lots of milk.

Regardless of her actual name, Amelie will be called ‘Achieng’ (Luo for daytime, when she was born) or ‘Awino’ (a Luo name to signify that Amelie had a cord round her neck at birth!)

Baby in a Basket (not encouraged in any culture)

It takes all our self- control not to scream ‘Gie’s a brek!’ or try to throttle someone!

Okay, I have to admit, this baby in Kisumu saga has annoyed me somewhat as I have a bugbear about being bound by tradition. When tradition and beliefs keep someone from seeing new ideas and possible better ways because ‘That’s not the way we do things around here!’ then someone can really miss out on a real blessing. Are we courageous enough to breakthrough traditional teachings to get to truth? Sometimes I ask myself ‘Who has the vision to welcome change in their lives’???? Yes, that is a real snapshot of the inner workings of my thought processes within my brain when confronted with others who seem set in their ways. I guess I like the idea that change is possible and can be a good thing sometimes.

Anyway, not that Roger our cat has to worry about any of the above with his/her newborn. Moja (Swahili for one, and cleverly rhyming with Roja), was born a few weeks after Amelie. The cat only gave birth to the one kitten, a rarity, so I’ve heard. The incredible thing was that Roger called me up to her labour and Em and I both witnessed her giving birth!

It is very exciting to be so close to new life in this house these days!

Having a new-born baby in the house has given me another reason for being grumpy in the mornings. Not just that though, sometimes the ‘system’ also makes me grumpy…’

The last week I have made it my mission to get all the documents needed that the British High Commission require for little Amelie to get her ‘baby passport.’ We need this official booklet for her to travel out of Kenya, which means we require it before our flight booked for the 24th of January next year. It may seem a long way away, but it is only about 9 weeks away, something which makes me nervous, especially considering how long things can take to process.

Additionally, once the High Commission in Nairobi have all the documents, they send them all to South Africa for processing, the passport returning in 6 weeks. And then, even before sending for processing in South Africa, all 3 of us have to show up in Nairobi for an interview (whatever for, I don’t really know). So, I knew we were already battling for time. Amelie did her part by coming on her due date, but it still didn’t give us much time to spare.

The most important document in the process is Amelie’s birth certificate. Before getting this, the birth notification from hospital has to get to the District Commissioner’s office in town.

This wasn’t straightforward, as the forms are only sent at the end of each month from the hospital, and the hospital has very strict ‘procedures’. Eventually, I spoke to the person who sent the forms to the district commissioner’s office where the birth certificates get processed. He allowed me to take the birth notification in person, giving me the contact of a guy there who would help me.

That sounded straight-forward and I thanked God for how it was working out. Next on the list, I had to get that birth certificate processed asap. The guy in the office who was called ‘Rasta’ by everyone (due to his hairstyle), told me that because I wanted the certificate pronto, it was obviously cost more money. Instead of the 150 shillings (about £1.20), it would cost 5000 shillings (£40). Knowing nothing about the way things work for a birth certificate, I agreed, handing over the cash, but asking him to make sure I get a receipt.

Rasta phoned me to tell me the birth certificate was ready the next day, which was incredible! I had told a few of my Kenyan friends about the situation of needing the birth certificate and how much it would cost. They were shocked at the price for the birth certificate and were a little suspicious. Sensing a dodgy deal, my colleague Sam said he would accompany me to pick up the certificate and claim the official receipt to make sure everything was in order.

On going to the office, the Rasta noticed me and clocked Sam as well. He produced the certificate, whereupon I insisted on the receipt. Strangely, he didn’t have it, but told us to wait, while he went to another office to pick up the receipt. On coming back, he gave me the receipt, but seemed edgy and nervous. He didn’t leave us, but was keen on speaking to Sam and told him so in Luo (the local language).

Sitting down together, Rasta talked at length with Sam in Luo. I could only pick up bits and pieces, so was only partly aware of what was going on. Incredibly, though, Rasta was confessing everything to Sam, saying that the whole thing was a scam in collusion with the man at hospital and the man who wrote the receipt from the different office. Sitting there, I found it a pretty weird experience to be part of, I felt quite awkward and somehow sad at the situation.It turned out that Rasta believed Sam to be a part of the Kenya Anti-Corruption team and was extremely worried about his job. He knew that we could go to his superior and explain what had taken place, costing him his job. Without any compulsion, he gave back the money. Sam told me later Rasta was so worried, he would probably have given us 4 times that amount if we had pushed him. However, Sam and I told him as Christians, we were able to forgive, only that he needs to watch what he is doing at work from now on. He never knows who he is trying to scam next…

So, that was that, face-to-face with corruption in the heart of the Kenyan government system. A corruption that rots the country and stops it from moving forward. A local newspaper reported that an adult Kenyan pays around 16 bribes a month. In fact, I understand that a significant proportion of what an average Kenyan earns goes towards bribes and paying the ‘system’. I see it most often when matatu (bus) drivers and their touts leave 100 shillings in the palm of the police (ever so subtly) when the police stop them on the road. Kenya is near the top of the most corrupt countries in the world, a fact which the newspapers attest to daily. The amount of scandals and allegations about missing money makes me angry every time I pick up the paper or watch the news. Missing money for free primary school education or missing money for maize for a needy population. How can people be so callous and greedy? Kenya is a country where 80% of the people say they are Christian. It is hard to believe, if it is true, then Christians need to start following the values of God who says: Deuteronomy 25:16 For the LORD your God detests anyone who does these things, anyone who deals dishonestly.

It has been a while since we last blogged, and for all those that follow us diligently, we apologise. We are feeling a bit of the ‘empty nest syndrome’ following the departure of my dad, sister Lizzie and (fake) Aunt Margaret, our final guests till baby, our permanent guest. (Aunt Margaret isn’t really a fake, just that she isn’t genuinely my aunt, but I have known her since a youngling growing up in Zaire). These 3 musketeers were passing through Kenya to see Em, bump and me having had a couple of weeks visiting old friends in Zaire. Aunt Margaret Mum and Dad were missionaries in Zaire, still feeling a strong connection to those that they worked with.

It was weird to have them here in Kisumu because of the cultural confusion that everyone seemed to be experiencing. Zaire (now Congo DRC), has gone through a heck of a lot with a one of the worst wars in living memory killing more people than any war since 2nd World War, child soldiers, cannibalism and mass rape. Where I grew up, though, was thankfully left isolated by the war, but it also means that there has been very little development and hardly anything has changed or moved on. Dad, Lizzie and Aunt Margaret couldn’t believe how ‘luxurious’ everything seemed in Kisumu, a place where they could go swimming in a hotel pool or shop in a supermarket. Aunt Margaret was astonished at all the hardware items that could be bought in the stores here. In Congo, there is very little available in the shops, and what you can get, you get at an inflated price. A 50kg bag of cement, for example, costs £7 or so here, but around £35 in Congo. Everything is imported, and with no roads to speak of, things are carried over vast distances by motorbike or bicycle.

Lizzie (a nurse) had been in a couple of hospitals to look round and had also been shocked. In the maternity ward, the only instruments available were a pair of scissors and a pair of tweezers. (Em says she is very glad that she is not due to give birth in a hospital like that…, but it does show us how lucky we are in the West, even when we complain about the NHS!)

It was surprising to see how Dad, Aunt Margaret and Lizzie responded to the level of need in Congo. Lizzie and Mum had done fund-raising for Congo (by running a half-marathon in my 60 year-old Mum’s case)! A very significant amount of money was taken out and distributed to friends in the church and the hospital. It is such a different approach to the ethos of REAP (Rural Extension with Africa’s Poor) of sharing ideas and empowering people to help themselves. Since being out in Kenya, we have begun to realise how money can cause more harm than good sometimes (like in the area of corruption). Aunt Margaret and Dad could see the great value of REAP’s teaching reaching their contacts in Congo because the ideas are long-lasting and won’t disappear as easily as the cash.

Visiting REAP stand with Mama Dom and Samwel

Dad collects stream water to water REAP plants

Aunt Margaret chews on a neem twig to clean her teeth. Lizzie looks on unimpressed

Sailing into the sunset after a successful visit with the hippos

On the issue of money and Africa, a significant book that we have been reading called “African Friends and Money Matters” has been a help in grappling with some of the cultural chasms that exists between us Westerners and Africans especially in the realm of money. Money is one of the most stressful issues that you have to face here everyday, when (very poor) people ask for something because they are hungry or have malaria or need school fees. Even little kids are regularly coming up, saying “Give me money”. Usually, then, I say a culturally appropriate expression like “Stuff off”, while kicking the offending child.When Lucy and Jon were here (Ems sister and brother-in-law), we had a number of deep chats about what is the most fitting way of helping people in what we perceive as unbelievable poverty. We never came to a neat conclusion about this massive issue, only to realise that it is a more complicated problem than just the need for dollars.

Other strange things that we have had to deal with recently: Emma’s trip to the hair ‘saloon’ made a turn for the worse when the lady used a handful of castor oil to flatten her hair, making it very shiny but also very slimy, unable to come out for days of washing. Roger the (female) cat is in heat, which has caused no end of stir among the cat neighbours who have been out caterwauling all day and night, much to our annoyance.

Finally, our estate management had to put up a notice for everyone’s attention. I think you will realise how important a notice it is:

Warning! Warning!To All Residents1. There is a night runner on court 7 who practices his charm naked from around mid-night. He throws debris to houses. Security officer is hereby directed to get hold of him and produce him for all to see.

Bwana night runner, take care and everyone watch out.*

2. Dear fellow parents: This is to strongly advice your teenage girls and boys (youth) never to sit or group in dark corners, corridors, pavements, school field etc. It is a disgrace! Security Office is hereby directed to discipline the pairs by caning and escorting them into their houses.

Should any parent (body) feel oppressed with this action, write back why your should not be disciplined if found.